


bottle up the sea breeze

by manycoloureddays



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Femslash February
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 16:06:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13550826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manycoloureddays/pseuds/manycoloureddays
Summary: Maybe Luna was looking out the window as Ginny ran up - or maybe it’s just one of those inexplicable Luna things - because Ginny hasn’t been there 30 whole seconds before Luna is standing at the now open front door.





	bottle up the sea breeze

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Josh Pyke's The Summer

The war is still heavy in Ginny’s bones when people start talking about the world ‘getting back to normal’. Fred and Tonks and Lupin and Colin barely buried, earth still fresh on their graves, and owls coming from Hogwarts demanding prompt responses to questions she is not even ready to think about yet, let alone answer. 

 

“They’re not demanding,” says Ron. He sets the pot of tea on the table, and sits down slowly, in that walking on eggshells while approaching a Hippogriff way the whole family have adopted around each other. It makes her itch. She wants to yell, except it would prove him right, and what she really wants anyway is for everyone to stop treating her like she’ll break. 

 

Hermione sits down next to him, her own letter in her hand. “They don’t even want an answer until the end of July. That’s nearly two whole months. And I think,” she scans further down the parchment, “yes, right here. If we don’t want to go back this September, they’re happy to hold our places until next year. It sounds to me like they just want to start the process.”

 

“It’s a good thing they’re giving us time too, with the Ministry wanting to know if we want to go into Auror training and who knows what …”

 

Ginny tunes out their conversation, her thoughts turning to Harry at the mention of the Ministry’s olive branch. She supposes it sounds different coming from Kingsley, than it had 18 months ago from Scrimgeour, but she still doesn’t blame Harry for taking one look at the Ministry logo and lighting the letter on the fire. They may have decided friendship suits them better in these battle-wired brains, and the sting of that, even if it was her decision, may still be raw, but she understands him in ways she doesn’t understand most other people. Maybe that’s why they aren’t working now, both too big for their scar-taut skin and both too loud for the quiet they are both seeking. Both long haunted by the ghost of a man newly dead. Ginny needs to get out of her head. 

 

She shoves her chair back from the table, hands shaking and bites out, “I’m going for a run,” so Ron and Hermione won’t follow, and then she’s out the door. Adrenaline that’s been sitting in her body for months pushes her out and out and out, and with the wind blowing in her face she feels almost, almost like she’s flying. Except she doesn’t trust herself on a broom. Is enjoying the feeling of her feet pressing into the ground, of the ground solid enough to withstand the pressure. Is enjoying the world looking the right size; big enough for her to fit in. 

 

She runs until she’s on top of a hill and she can look down on The Burrow, can watch the gnomes and cats and chickens muddle around the garden like the world hasn’t changed, can see the wind blowing the washing on the line, can close her eyes and imagine it is ten years ago and war was a memory other people had, five years ago and the only Tom Riddle she’d ever met was a ghost, five weeks ago and all her brothers were alive. She heaves in deep breaths of air, turns on her heel, and runs. With her legs pushing in the ground, and her lungs burning, and the wind on her face, she doesn’t feel the drowning. 

 

She runs, and she runs, and she stops thinking. She skirts around the village, and up over more hills. She keeps running until she sees purple puffs of smoke coming from the chimney of a familiar house. 

 

Ginny runs all the way up to the front gate, then stands there hands on her hips, wheezing. She can’t be that loud, so maybe Luna was looking out the window as Ginny ran up - or maybe it’s just one of those inexplicable Luna things - because Ginny hasn’t been there 30 whole seconds before Luna is standing at the now open front door. She doesn’t call out, doesn’t come over, doesn’t push or pull back or any of the other things Ginny feels guilty about for snapping at people over. Luna just pulls the door wide open and inviting, and smiles. 

 

Ginny, breath caught and bearings found, grins back and bounds up the front path and up the steps. She stops too suddenly at the top and Luna reaches out to steady her. Ginny feels like laughing. 

 

“Hi,” she says, giggle caught in her throat, coating her voice. 

 

“Hello.” Luna squeezes her arm. “Would you like a scone?”

 

Ginny cannot help herself, she actually giggles this time. “A scone? Just a regular old scone?” 

 

Luna doesn’t stop smiling, but there is a glimmer of something else in her eye when she says, “regular scones yes. They’re not old though, they’re fresh out of the oven. Come inside, Ginny. We’ll have scones and lemonade.” Ginny follows her into the house.

 

Luna floats around the kitchen, pulling drawers and cupboards open and not shutting them, dancing through the patchwork light let in through the cracked stained glass windows above the sink. She leaves Ginny to catch her breath, and Ginny thinks,  _ yes.  _ She thinks,  _ thank you.  _ Because this is what she needs; understanding company, and space. 

 

Her war feels more like Luna’s war; child soldiers and a school turned battleground. Her war did not leave her feeling lonely, hers was not fought on the run; theirs was a war of allies and once familiar shadows turned dangerous. When Luna catches Ginny’s eye on her way to the fridge, Ginny sees an understanding reflected back. Luna’s mouth goes firm with grim empathy and Ginny doesn’t feel her hackles rise.  _ Yes,  _ she thinks,  _ thank you.  _

 

Once Luna has fixed their drinks, they put the still warm scones in a basket lined with red and white cloth and Ginny follows Luna outside. They sit on the grass in the afternoon sun, and Ginny listens to a rambling story about the dream Luna had last night, as her fingers get jam sticky and her stomach fills in a way that doesn’t feel like habit. 

 

And when Luna asks, “do you think you’ll go back?” when they’re lying side by side watching clouds, Ginny doesn’t want to run. She reaches out and links their fingers. 

 

She whispers, “I don’t know.”

 

“Neither do I,” says Luna. “Have I told you about the book I found on cloud watching?”

 

Ginny breaths in slowly, settles deeper into the long grass. “No, but you should.” 

 

Luna looks over at her then, and Ginny feels seen. So she looks back. Traces the scars on Luna’s bare shoulders with her eyes, notices the way the sun catches the light in the tangles of her hair, looks and looks and looks. She feels like she’s passed a test, though she never felt like she was taking one, when Luna shuffles closer. So close their noses are almost touching and Ginny knows that if she leant in a little closer she’d be more than welcome to brush their lips together. She doesn’t. She leans in and tilts her face up a little, kisses the tip of Luna’s nose. 

 

Luna giggles. Ginny giggles. And they are a tangle of grass stained limbs under a clear summer sky. 

 

The war is still heavy in Ginny’s bones. Some nights she wakes to the smell of hair singed by a just-dodged Cruciatus, and her eyes are drawn to the missing hand on the clock like her tongue used to be drawn to missing teeth. There are days she can’t breathe with the hate she holds in her body, and days she knows if she starts running she won’t stop, not even if she got to the sea. But she also knows that this is the first of more afternoons. This is the first of many things. She has hours of cloud watching in her future, hours and days and weeks and nearly two months and then longer to make decisions. She has Luna, and they have time. She gulps down air and giggles some more. 


End file.
